


Sacraments

by somethingclever



Category: Justified
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 06:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9421658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingclever/pseuds/somethingclever
Summary: Art worries when they change coffee brands.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a silly little story inspired by Art telling Raylan in season 1, "It's a small office. I worry when they change coffee brands." I hope you enjoy!

Lexington was a small office, and Art was generally glad it wasn't bigger, most of the time.  He’s cautious about who he adds to the team.  It had been four months since their last big change – adding a young sniper-turned-Marshal to their office – and the deputies and staff were still milling about it, still trying to work out their new coworker.  He didn’t help by being a reclusive, quiet, competent little jerk with more sass than anything.

His new Marshal wasn't what concerned him that morning, though, as he swept in, prepared to embrace the day and cuff bad guys, no.  No, what concerned him today was the group of people at the coffee pot, taking sips and muttering.

There was a riot brewing, and he wandered over to quell it. “Morning.”

“Chief,” he’s greeted, and they held their breath as he poured his cup and blew on it, took a sip – and flinched in shock.

Even Tim, notorious for consuming foods and beverages others eye with caution, was drinking his with an air of resignation to an unpleasant medicine. “God,” he gasped as he drained the cup, shaking his head, “That’s enough t’take a man back to the _shit_.”

Lovely. Their coffee is terrible enough it’s giving their veteran flashbacks.

Rachel sipped hers, sniffed it, “I think it’s not really coffee.  I accidentally drank tobacco juice, once?”

And that’s all it took for everyone to upend their mugs and go back to their desks, a dangerous hum in the air.

Art headed down to the office manager’s lairs, desperate for help.

“It’s more cost-effective,” Martha informed him, her face set like stone as she sipped from her cup of tea.

“Have you tasted it?”

“Never cared for coffee.”

“We can’t live like this.”

“It’s more cost-effective, and we’re trying to cut costs.”

Art gritted his teeth and accepted his demise as he went back up to his office.  Shots had been fired, and a cold war was beginning.  The Marshals dug in on one side of the coffee trench, and the support staff took up positions on the other side.

Tim, ever practical, brought in a small pot and press, setting it up under his desk and making enough in stages for everyone.  Clearances were good that day, and Art accepted that part of his Junior Deputies’ duties, for the time being, was to make coffee for everyone else.

The next morning, Martha and her coterie of flunkies stood in front of Tim’s desk, arms crossed, “You’re in violation of employee use codes,” Martha said, “And building safety. Surrender your boiler plate, please.”

The please was a formality.

(Tim laughed and handed them over, not even putting up a fuss over the loss of his equipment – Art had to guess he’d had items confiscated in his past, and wondered idly what it was – porn or booze or _what_ would an officer confiscate in Iraq? He had no idea.)

Rachel’s face was a study in grim determination, and she went desk to desk, speaking in a low voice.

All the things the Marshals did to make the lives of the support staff easier ceased summarily.  Art joined in in solidarity, telling Martha she could figure out the time sheets herself.

In return, the support staff’s ability to take a goddamn phone message or ensure timely delivery of mail suffered.  The final straw was the trash bag coming out and the entire contents of the refrigerator and freezer being thrown out.  Apparently, there had been mold in a container, and that justified throwing out everything. Cross-contamination, Martha said, could make you sick.

Art went to have a meeting with Martha.  They fought it out behind closed doors, and nobody was certain what the Chief said to the Manager, what promises were made, but they came out of the room with a compromise and a handshake.  Rachel would later say she wasn’t sure Art had his own soul anymore.

The coffee was returned to the previously approved brand, and Art made the first pot, watching the brew drip down into the pot.  When it was full, he took the pot and turned to where his Marshals were waiting with their mugs, like orphans in a Dickens’ story, hoping for gruel. As he poured them their cups, he felt oddly like he was in church, passing out communion.

That impression was only solidified by Rachel’s fervent, “Thank God,” as she took a sip, followed by a soft, heart-felt “Amen,” from Tim.

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment! Comments make my day :)


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